forever and always
by acidhu3s
Summary: (originally posted on ao3. edited from 2nd person to 1st) I never dream when I sleep. I used to. Or, maybe I did. The past feels hazy, to me. Inaccessible. Maybe I should be sad. She used to ask me if I had any dreams. My answer was no. It was always no. "What a shame," is what she said. "You used to." I used to. She said I did. She never lies, so it must be true.
1. Chapter 1

I never dream when I sleep.

I used to. Or, maybe I did. I don't know. The past feels hazy, to me. Inaccessible. My life starts and ends in the moment. Maybe I should be sad. She used to ask me if I had any dreams. My answer was no. It was always no.

"What a shame," is what she said. "You used to."

I used to. She said I did. She never lies, so it must be true.

She's amazing, I think.

I love her, I know.

She looked sad when I told her that. I don't know why. She didn't tell me when I asked why. "It's nothing," she said instead. But it was something to her, and she is my everything, so it should be something to me too, shouldn't it?

Ah, but I didn't press.

Good servants never press.

* * *

When she stops by my apartment, she brings food. When she brings food, that is the only time I eat.

"Did you eat anything earlier?" she used to ask each time. Her expression always soured when I gave her my answer. "Why not?"

If she wanted me to eat, she would tell me. Even when she brings food, I don't eat. I wait for her to plate it. I wait for her to shove a fork at me. I wait for her to tell me to eat. I don't do things out-of-turn. Her words are snappish. Good. A master should be forceful.

But that's not the answer she wants. I know that much.

Instead, I shrug. "I wasn't hungry," I say. I make sure I pronounce each syllable. If I speak too fast or too lazily, then she might not understand. I might look sloppy. Only bad servants are sloppy. When she speaks to me, she speaks quickly. She mumbles, sometimes. Her voice varies a lot. Sometimes it's soft, sometimes it's forceful. Good. Variety is a good aspect for a person to have.

"You're never hungry," she states with a huff. Yes. I ignore the pangs of hunger that wrack my frame. They don't exist. She said I was never hungry, after all. So I'm not hungry, but I'll eat. I'll eat because she wants me to. "How've you been feeling recently?"

I've been hurting recently. My arms ache where the cuts were, where the stitches are now. My abdomen burns with each movement, a dull, fiery kind of pain.

"Good," I say. It's the answer she wants. "I have been following the doctor's instructions. One to two pills, no more than three at a time. Never take more than six a day. It's better to have with food, otherwise you'll get nauseous."

The doctor's words are burned into my mind. I don't forget them, not a bit. Good servants don't forget.

"How're the cuts?" she asks. There is a mouthful of rice in her mouth, so her words come out distorted. It's rude to talk with food in your mouth, but she does it anyways. It's okay if she does it, I reason, because she never does anything wrong. A good master doesn't make mistakes. "Do they hurt?"

"Only a little," I reply. They keep me up at night. Everything keeps me up at night. I don't think I sleep well. I'm never sure. I'm only sure if she is sure. That's how these things work, after all.

"... Okay," she says. There's nothing to reply to there, so I don't.

I eat my food in silence. Once I finish it, I'm still hungry. I don't tell her that, though. She didn't ask.

She leaves, eventually. She always does. I wish she didn't.

I feel like my stomach: empty, barren, only slightly filled.

I don't think I like it, either.

* * *

She takes me to the Cuttlefish Cabin.

I don't think I like the cabin. I don't think she likes the cabin, either. There's a reason why you come, though. It's reports. It's check-ups. They should be off work right now. Well, they are. Or, I am. She keeps working. I still don't know why. The Zapfish are safe. She shouldn't be working.

When I brought that to her attention, she just laughed. It sounded tired, hollowed. It reminded me of half-melted ice being rolled in a plastic cup.

I'm so thirsty, too. I don't drink. I only drink when she tells me to. I don't act out of turn. I never bring it up.

I gnaw at my lip as I sit on the couch. The fabric is itchy. The cushions are hard. I don't think I like this couch. Standing takes too much energy, though. My legs shake when I do. I can barely support my own weight.

I wonder if she would care if I slept. I'd like to sleep. I'm so tired.

At night, I barely sleep. The streets are too noisy. My breathing is too loud. It's too dark in my room, so I open the blinds. It's too bright, then, so I close them. I've tried to find a middle ground, but that's too dark and too bright. I give up after that.

When she leaves, she always tells me the same thing: "Remember to take it easy, and try to get some rest."

I'd like that, honestly. I know I would.

So I try. Not just for her, but for me, too, in a careless act of selfishness. I toss and turn all night and never get anywhere. If I stay up for too long, my body stops. That's the only way I know how to describe it. It stops.

When it stops, I know peace.

I miss peace. I miss sleep. The pills the doctor prescribed me for my pain make me drowsy too, but I only take them when my cuts hurt. If she ever found out I took them to sleep, she'd be mad.

I don't want that.

I sigh quietly and shift on the couch. I'm not wearing my agent wear. The vest is shredded from the blender, after all. If it tore my stomach and arms apart, then there's no reason for my clothes to have survived. I'm wearing one of her shirts instead. I've been wearing it for five days straight now. It used to smell like her, but it doesn't anymore. I like to pretend it does, though.

I grab a fistful of it and breathe in. My reward is the overwhelming odor of my stench. I haven't showered in five days, either.

The others have been treating me differently lately. I want to understand. I don't. I can't. She won't allow it.

She prohibits me, whether she knows it or not. She is my walking rulebook. She is my world. I don't think it was always this way. If it was, I can't remember. Details are hazy. Everything feels hazy. I think I am drowning, drowning in air, soupy and thick and choking, like the sea forced mouthful after mouthful of itself down my throat. It postpones the end, though. I wish it didn't. I wish it'd kill me already.

Mm.

Yes, a break would be nice.

* * *

She doesn't come on Tuesdays or Thursdays. She has practice then, after all. Her life is busy. Important. Mine isn't, and that's okay. It's okay if my life is dull. If it's quiet. I hurt too much right now.

I'm supposed to be healing. I don't think I am. I feel stuck. I feel like the world is just holding me still, sticky hands wrapped around my throat and my legs and my everything. I want to move forward. I want to get better. I'm not.

I'm on the phone with my mother. Conversation is hard. I don't want to disappoint her, though.

I lie to her. I don't feel bad about lying to her. And I don't feel bad about lying to myself to keep up the other lies.

"How's Sarah doing?" she asks. Her voice is sweet. Her voice is gentle.

"She's okay," I reply. My voice is rough. It is grainy. It is edges, it is a symphony of knives striking glass, it is hoarse. Most of all, it is drained.

Sarah.

I miss her.

I don't know if Sarah is the name she wants me to call her by. My mother calls her Sarah. When I see glimpses of her on my Inkstagram feed, her teammates call her Sarah. I should call her Sarah, then, too.

But Marie calls her Four. Callie calls her Four. The Captain calls her Agent 4. The new girl calls her Four. Marina and Pearl, whenever they're at the Cabin, they call her Four. So I should call her Four, then?

Ah.

Rules are confusing.

Next time she comes and, if she gives me permission, I'll ask.

For now, she is just her.

"How have you been doing?" my mother asks. The words come out slow. They remind me of molasses, sweet and dripping slowly.

I'm so hungry.

"I'm okay," I say. Okay is subjective. Okay is never a lie. My okay can be someone's bad. My bad can be someone's okay. To someone in the world, how I feel right now is okay.

"... Okay," is what she settles on after a small bout of silence. "Well, I've... Got to go. I'm going out with Cindy tomorrow - you remember Cindy right?" (I don't, but I hum as if I do.) "Yes! She's been asking about you. Okay, well, I'd like to see how you're doing. Are you still sick?"

'Yes,' is the right answer. In a way, I'm still sick. I've always been sick. At least, from what I can remember.

"No," I reply, forcing my voice to match hers in tone. "I'm okay. I'm starting work again on Sunday."

"Alright. As... As long as you're good." There are notes of worry in her tone. I ignore them. "Send me a picture of yourself? Oh, what's it called..? A selfie?" I hum again. She takes it as a yes. "Send me one, okay? I'd love to see you!"

"Okay." My mouth is dry. The words hurt my throat. I wish I didn't have to speak. "Bye, Mom."

"Talk to you soon, Summer."

The line goes dead.

I flick on a light and wince. I turn it off.

Good. The dark is good.

I find the part of my apartment that's the brightest and I try and angle myself in a way that looks presentable.

I look at the picture after I take it.

My frame is lanky. Too lanky. I've lost weight. My muscles aren't nearly as defined. The bandages wrapped around my wounds are old, stained with dark blue blood. I should change them. I want to change them. I'm tired. It's too much work.

It's okay, I reason as I send the picture to my mother, she'll fix it.

I turn my phone off after that. The light hurts my eyes. I don't bother plugging it in, either. It's at eighteen percent. In the morning, it will be dead.

In the morning, I hope I am too.

* * *

She doesn't stop by on Tuesday. That's normal. She doesn't stop by on Wednesday. "Car accident," she said over text. "I'm okay, but the traffic was insane. Do you need me to come over?" "No," was my reply. I didn't want to say anything longer. I didn't want to waste her time.

It's Thursday. She doesn't stop by on Thursdays.

I'm hungry.

She wouldn't mind if I ate, would she? I hope she doesn't. I don't want her to. But I'm also not sure. If she told me to take care, then I would be okay. Eating falls under take care. Showering falls under take care. I don't like the way I reek, but I do. As a bonus, it keeps the water bill down. Something like that.

I could ask. I should ask. I hope she doesn't mind.

With shaky steps, I walk over to the fridge. It smells. I open the door. The lights are bright. The air is cool. The smell is so much worse.

It's of rot. All the food I had left there before I went to Kamabo is still there. That was a month ago. A month and two weeks ago. A month, two weeks, and three days ago.

She would be mad if I ate expired food, wouldn't she? That won't do. I close the door. Yes, it's best to leave that there. I'll clean it out another day. When I feel better.

Ha.

That's funny, isn't it.

But no matter. I need food. I need to eat. If I don't eat, I will die. If I die, I will disappoint her. I can't have that.

I have some money left in my account. Not a lot, but some. Enough to buy a cup ramen. Enough to buy two. More than enough for that, but I don't want to go overboard.

Yes. That will do.

There is a convenience store around the block. It's within walking distance. It's open twenty-four hours.

I don't want to walk. I want to just be there. No, I want to just be here but with two cups of instant ramen. I'd have something to take my pills with. That would be good, too. My cuts are hurting more than ever. They could be infected. It's probably from the old bandages. I hope they're not infected. They probably are. I can deal with them when I'm not hungry. When I'm rested.

Yes. I push myself off the ground and ignore the burn my cuts give me. The burn that shoots through my whole body. I want to collapse, but the thought of warm instant ramen fuels me.

Pathetic, isn't it? I feel like some animal, chasing food that's forever out-of-reach.

(_At least the animal can properly serve,_ I think bitterly as I stumble down the stairs. _What can you do?_)

(The answer, as always, is nothing.)

* * *

I come back at 1:13 in the morning. In total, the walk took me an hour. While I was at the store, I bought four cups of instant ramen and a pack of cigarettes. I don't smoke. I throw them out once I leave without even opening them.

Making the ramen doesn't take long. Eating it takes even less. I eat all four cups. I scrape at the insides of the cups until styrofoam comes back on my spoon. I scrounge around in my fridge for anything that might have not expired.

Once those options run dry, I call her.

"Summer?" she answers after the second ring. She sounds groggy. I woke her up. "Shit, are you okay?"

I start spewing apologies until I choke on my sobs. I apologize more after that, even though they come out incoherent and messy and disgusting.

"Hey, hey," she comforts, "What's wrong? Summer, Summer- Calm down, hey..."

I force myself to calm. Crying doesn't make my headache any better.

"I ate," I mumble miserably. She pauses, as if she's expecting more. "... Sorry."

"You... Ate?" she repeats. I nod. She can't see it. "I don't see the problem."

"I don't eat on Thursdays," I explain quietly. The phone is in my right hand. I grab an empty cup with my left. "You don't want me to, right?"

"Summer..." She sounds disappointed. I feel like a disappointment. I wish I was dead. I'm so close to it now, after all. In this analogy, I'm one step away. In real life, I'm one well-timed jump out my window. "Summer, of course I want you to eat. Is... Is that why you haven't been eating?"

"Yes," I admit. She sighs, a judgmental miasma of loathing. It chokes me. It chokes me, fills my lungs, burns them. I should be dead. I should be dead. I'm a disappointment. Disappointments that can't serve should be dead. "So-"

"Don't apologize." Her voice is steady, or it's trying not to be. No, her voice is angry, and she's trying to keep it steady. "From now on, if you want to eat... Eat. I didn't think you needed my permission. If you need to do anything to stay alive, just... Do it. That includes showering."

Helplessly, I nod against the receiver.

"Okay."

She sighs again. "I'll... I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Be... Be careful, Summer."

She hangs up.

Summer.

I roll the word around my tongue. It feels foreign. Alien. It feels like my blue eye, rolling about its socket.

I push myself off the ground. I set my phone on the counter and look inside the cup.

The cup is empty, the ramen gone.

I feel empty when she is gone.

Funny, right?

* * *

"You're not okay, are you, Summer?" she asks one evening. Her mantle is a mangled mess of blues and whites. It's death on display. I think I should feel scared, so I do. I don't know what I did to upset her. I never know. I only do what she tells me. If she knows, then I know. If she doesn't, then neither do I.

I search her face for the right answer. I search her mantle for clues. I don't know if I'm okay or not. I only know that I am me. Is there an answer she wants? I want to make her happy. If she is happy, I am happy. That is what a good servant does, after all.

There is an answer she expects, I deduce, and then another one. An excuse.

"No," I say. Her face breaks. I feel myself break. "I don't think I am."

"What's wrong with you?" she asks. Tears run down her face. That's not good. A servant should never make their master cry. I'm worthless, I think. I don't deserve to live, I know. I've failed her, is the ultimate truth. The word echoes in my head, rattling in my chest. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Fai

"I'm sorry," I state. I think I'm sorry. I think I should be sorry. I think I feel sorry. I think she wants me to feel sorry. I think I don't know what I think. I think I should be dead. I think I should be blended with the other ten-thousand and seven. I think I should rot. I think I would be better off dead. "Do you know?"

She stops crying for a moment, one so brief and small that it never happened. My words were right. It was best to apologize. It's okay, then. If she stops crying, it's okay.

But then she starts again. Her sobs are loud. They are ugly. I am ugly. I know I'm ugly. I'm disgusting. I'm trash. I'm awful.

Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Fa

"What happened to you?" Her voice is loud and trembling. It reminds me of an avalanche. It reminds me of an object, high-up and waiting to fall. Good. I hope it crushes me. I hope it smashes my guts to bits. I hope I end up a stain on the floor. I hope my stain is washed-out and gone forever. I hope I'm forgotten.

Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. F

The other octoling described the process. I could hear her discussing it in the other room to Marie. Sometimes my hearing feels distant. Sometimes it feels close. I don't get the luxury of a middle ground.

"Sanitization," I repeat. "It's a process in which-"

"I know what happened," she snaps. Then there's no need for me to answer, if she knows. I'm confused. Did I answer wrong, then? I wish she wasn't mad. I don't want her to be mad. I have worth. I'm sure of it, I think. Do I? Do servants with worth make their masters cry?

Somehow, I doubt it. "But... Why? Tartar, right? That was his name?"

I nod.

"Why are you still..?" She gestures towards me vaguely. I get the gist of it. "He's gone. You're still fucked up."

I don't know what words she wants, but I know the truth.

"I have you," I say, voice light. A smile dances on my lips as I take her hand. It's soft. So soft. So wonderful. She's wonderful. "I have you, and you are all I ever need."

I don't know why she breaks down sobbing again, but she does.

"I love you," I breathe. It meshes with the sound of her tears, raucously melodic. Again and again I say it, this absolute truthful declaration, till I'm giddy with joy. "I love you, forever and always."

(She doesn't say it back, and that's okay. A master isn't obligated to love their servants, after all.)


	2. Chapter 2

I lean back against the couch. The living room is dark. The kitchen is not. Light pours in from the kitchen, curling around the entryway. There's no door, I note. It would be weird if the kitchen had a door. There is a hole there as if there should be, though.

She's in the kitchen, washing dishes. I offered to wash them, but she insisted on doing it herself. "You'll aggravate your cuts," was her reasoning. "Just sit back and let me do it."

How did I get such a kind master?

... No. She doesn't like it when I call her that. She wants me to call her my 'friend.'

A friend.

What a funny thing to be.

"I had a dream last night," I blurt out.

"Oh?"

I pull my legs up to my chest. They don't look like my own. They don't feel like my own. I don't feel like my own.

"We had sex," I continue. In the other room, I hear dishes clatter as she chokes on her own spit. The water keeps running. "I didn't like it."

"Oh," is the response she settles on. "Um... Well, I'm... Sorry to hear that."

"It's okay."

When I dream, I only dream of her. Sometimes she berates me. She hurts me. She kicks me. Beats me. She tells me it's for being disobedient. For being worthless. Other times she praises me. She likes me. She holds me. She loves me. She says it's for being good. For being better than everyone else. I don't know which one I like more. I hope she doesn't make me choose. I don't want to choose. I want her to choose for me.

Last night, she didn't choose. I didn't choose, either. It happened. That was it. When I woke, I didn't feel good. I felt sad. I cried. I can't remember the last time I cried.

I didn't like it, either.

I don't like the idea of intimacy. Towards most people, yes, but most certainly towards her. There's a fuzzy memory stashed away in the confines of my mind of her lips, so very close to mine.

She kissed me. That much I know.

Why? Why did she? That part, I don't.

I could ask. I don't remember. She is kind. She explains the things I don't remember, like Cindy. Cindy used to babysit me when I was young, up until I was twelve. She could explain this. I could also wait. Some of my memories have been coming back, or, rather, I've just remembered them. They never went anywhere. I don't know how to describe it.

I want to know why. I also don't.

There's a deep-rooted repulsion that comes with it. With the dream. With her. I feel it when we talk. I feel it when we're close. I feel it when she holds me. I feel it when she looks at me.

It's not directed towards her. It's directed towards me. I waste so much of her time by just existing, and then I dream of her. Even in sleep, I waste her time.

Disgusting. Wasteful.

It felt real. It felt so real, and that's why I hate it. I hate myself for thinking of it, too.

A nightmare, I reason, it was a nightmare.

(I don't think I'm supposed to like nightmares, but white lies never hurt anyone.)

"Do you dream?" I ask. My voice sounds scratchy. Faint. It sounds like the recording of a recording, with pops from the speakers caught on the other device. Distant. Distorted. It doesn't sound like my own. I don't which voice is mine. I don't want a voice.

"Uh... Sometimes." Her voice is pretty. She's pretty. She sounds tired, though. Do I keep her up? She insists on caring for me. I don't know why she does if she's tired. Is this friendship? I don't like how the word feels when I think it. I never say it. If I tried saying it, I'd choke. It feels like bile in my throat, rising. Consuming. Burning. Sickening. I don't think I should have friends. I don't think I'm enough of a person for friends. She insists on calling me her friend, though. She's nice like that, I think. I don't deserve her, I know.

"Did you dream last night?"

"Uhh..." I assume she did. Maybe not. Do people dream every night? "Yeah. I remember pieces of it."

She goes on to explain what she remembers in detail - she got lost in MakoMart and ran into some celebrity when the apocalypse started.

"That sounds exciting," I say once she finishes. Her dreams are dreams. They're unrealistic. Fantastical. My dreams are like that too, in a way. Absolutely unrealistic. A crazed fantasy. "Were you scared?"

"I woke up a little scared, yeah." I can't picture her scared. She is a person, yes, but she is more than that. She is an angel, trapped in a prison of flesh and blood. "I mean, once I figured out it was a dream, I thought it was funny. You should have seen it..!"

I nod slightly against my knee. She can't see it. Good. I don't like being seen. By others. By her. By me. In the mirror, I stare at myself. From the other side, it stares back. I don't look like myself. I don't feel like myself. My body doesn't feel like mine. Then whose body would? Nothing comes to mind. If I could change my body to what I want, maybe I would be better. If I could fill my lungs with soil and let myself rot, maybe I would be happy. I don't know if I deserve it. I don't know if I deserve happiness.

She starts talking again. Her voice sounds fuzzy. Distant. Underwater. The world feels fuzzy. Dizzy. Underwater.

I close my eyes and slump further against my knees.

Dreams are something I don't deserve. I'd like to sleep a dreamless sleep.

Yes.

A break sounds nice.

* * *

She leaves eventually. She always does. I feel sad when she leaves. Each time, I know it's coming. It never makes it hurt any less.

I feel bad for feeling sad. I shouldn't feel sad. I'm being selfish. I shouldn't be selfish. Good servants, or- Good _friends_ (the word feels like vomit on my tongue) shouldn't be selfish. I value my needs too much. I should value hers more. Friendship is about equality, so I've heard. I take too much. She gives too much. I should give more. I don't give more. I'm selfish. Too selfish.

I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling. My cuts have been healing, if only slightly. They hurt less. She changes my bandages for me. I don't know why. No. I do know why. She's too nice. Too giving. She must be like that towards everyone, if she's like that towards me. I should pay her back. How? How do I? She never tells me if she needs anything. When she's here, she only asks about me. Me and my problems. That's it. She brings me food and we talk. I can tell she doesn't like talking to me. She chooses her words too carefully. Her voice is soft, always soft. She doesn't touch me beyond changing my bandages. Is she scared of hurting me? Does she think I'm too fragile? I want to hurt. I want to ache. I want to bleed. I want her to hurt me. There I go again. Being selfish. Being greedy.

There's no way for me to pay her back in the end. No favour I do for her will be enough. The only way to truly pay her back is to leave her life forever.

I look away from the ceiling and over at the window.

(One well-timed jump is all it would take.)

* * *

She pulls her fingers out. Sticky strands of saliva connect them to my mouth, pooling on my bottom lip. It's tinted blue with a sickly sheen - my blood, I realize belatedly.

I lick my lips. They taste metallic, rough against my tongue. Still, I don't speak. I wait. I watch. My stomach hurts. The stitches have been pulled apart. I'm bleeding. I don't whine. I don't complain. Even as it spills down to the floor, I say nothing. My blood is warm against my skin. The rest of me is cold. Feverishly cold.

Her fingers trail down to the gash again. They trace the edge of it (it hurts, it hurts, I want more) before pushing in. It burns. It aches. Her nails scrape at my flesh. They feel like tiny knives. I love it. I hate that I love it.

How disgusting.

She pulls her fingers out. My breathing is ragged. Rapid. Fast.

When she looks down at me, there is nothing but disgust in her eyes.

"Gross," she mutters.

'Gross.' I agree. I'm disgusting. I'm trash. I'm worthless.

I open my mouth to apologize and

* * *

I open my eyes.

Dreaming.

I had another dream.

I sit up. The sheets ruffle around me. I'm not bleeding. The sheets are dry.

I pull my knees up to my chest.

Disgusting.

I'm disgusting.

* * *

She takes me to the Cuttlefish Cabin again. I still don't like the Cabin. I still think she doesn't either.

Callie and Marie are never there. They're always busy. I don't know why I have to come if they don't. Maybe it's something to do with getting out of the house. Maybe it's supposed to be good for I. It doesn't feel like it's good for me, but what do I know?

It's just me and her and it.

I am worse than people. Than everyone. I'm garbage, walking among them.

She is better than all. She is my angel. She is kind, giving. Loving.

It is worse than me. It is the trash of trash. It wastes oxygen by existing. It is something I should eliminate.

He asked me to eliminate it. He commanded me.

He is gone. He is dead. I don't serve him any longer.

But it is here. It is alive. It shouldn't be.

I don't hate it. Not exactly. But I recognize its status. Worthless. Puny. Miserable.

She hates it. I don't know why. She says it hurt me. That it's the reason I'm like this now. I don't know what she means by 'now.' I've always been like this, haven't I? When I asked, she grew mad. I don't ask her stupid questions anymore.

It doesn't talk to me when she's around. It knows she hates it. Good. It's self aware. When we're alone, though, we talk.

"Hi," it mumbles one day, shifting where it stands. "Um... You are Agent 3, right?"

I nod. Its accent is thick.

"Um... I'm Agent 8." I nod again. It's information I already know. Still, I am polite. So what if it's beneath me? So what if the world wouldn't miss it if I tore its entrails out and hung it by its neck? "But, um... If you want, you can call me Eight?"

It holds its hand out for a handshake. Gingerly, I take it. I shake it. Later on, I'll have to wash it. I can't live with touching trash beneath myself.

Silence settles over us. I can tell it's awkward for it. I don't care. I'm better than it. Finally, I'm better than something. I could kill it if I wanted. The world wouldn't care. She wouldn't care. She wants it dead, I know. To make her happy, to truly pay her back, I could kill it.

An extermination, I think.

"I am, um... Sorry," it apologizes. It drags its foot against the floor. It's nervous, to be in my presence. Yes. Good. The worthless should be. I would know. "For... For everything."

"It's okay," I reply. I don't know if it truly is okay. She will be the judge of that. As it stands, though, I have no qualms with it being here.

It blinks. Is it shocked? Stupid.

"She, um... Four-"

"I don't care," I interrupt. I don't care what it thinks. I don't care what it says. I don't care about it. "Stop talking."

It blushes. Its ink is purple.

Disgusting.

I hate purple.

"Sorry," it mumbles once more. It hesitates for a moment before turning to leave. I grab its wrist, hold it tight.

"Don't leave."

I don't know why I want it to stay. Maybe it's that fleeting feeling that I'm finally, finally better than something. Maybe it's because I don't want it to bother her anymore.

I don't know.

Regardless, it stays.

Good.

Obedience is such a wonderful trait.

* * *

"You were talking to Eight?" she asks. I nod. "How... Was it?"

"... Okay," is the reply I settle on. "She's not that bad."

"Really?" she breathes, a whisper beneath her breath. She shakes her head and smiles at me. "That's... That's good. It's good that you're making friends."

I have to try not to laugh.

'Friends.'

What a funny concept.


	3. Chapter 3

In her arms, she holds me.

Right now, I feel loved. Truly and honestly loved. Loved, as if I'm something deserving it. Loved, as if I'm someone deserving it. Deserving her.

Her touch is light and warm, soft and gentle as her hand trails down my stomach and onto my thighs and between them, too. It's blazing, molten, yet so, so gentle. It's hers. I'm hers. I love her. I love her so, so much.

I gasp when she touches me. I moan when she enters me. Her other hand rests on my thigh and keeps me close. In her grasp, it quivers.

My face is hot, mouth parted. It contorts. I'm smiling.

Happy. I feel happy.

I didn't think I was capable of such a thing.

When I smile, do I look wretched? Am I as awful as I think?

But then I feel her lips press a kiss to my neck and my breath catches in my throat. Her fingers curl within me.

"I love you," she murmurs, voice low. My hips shakily rock into her hand. "Mh, is this good?"

"Yes," I choke out. It's good. It's amazing. It's her. She loves me. She loves me. I'm so happy, I could die. Maybe I am dead. Maybe I've found heaven. Heaven is her. Heaven is holding me. Fucking me. I'm so happy. I love her. I love her.

She laughs. It's low and rumbling and teasing and it quakes throughout my body. I don't know what she normally laughs like. I don't know if I've ever heard her laugh before. I hope I can hear it again. I love her. I love her. I love her.

She's hard. I can feel her pressing against my skin. She likes me, I realize. She loves me. She loves me, and that's what matters.

Yes.

The sharp edge of her beak grazes my skin and I shudder. Her tongue drags against my neck, slow and burning, and I gasp out her name.

Hers.

I'm hers.

"You're so pretty, baby," she breathes, voice tickling my ear. "Fucking beautiful."

Her words only serve to make me hotter. I'm pretty. Beautiful. She said I was, so it's true. I feel free. For once, I feel free. She loves me. She loves me.

From my mouth tumbles filthy curses and mindless approval, a sickening mantra of "Yes, yes, yes," and she doesn't slow down and doesn't stop when my hips start stuttering and fuck messily into her hand.

"I love you," she repeats and curls her fingers just so and that does it, that does it, and with a loud cry, I come. I'm a mess, such a mess, but she loves me, she loves me, and that's what matters, she loves me, fuck, she loves me, and as I come down from my high, I open my eyes and-

Dreaming.

I was dreaming.

Of course I was. There's no reason for it to not have been.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There's no reason for someone like her to love me.

The realization hits me suddenly like a body splattering onto asphalt.

There isn't any reason for someone like her to love something like me.

That feeling churns in my stomach, dread eating me from the inside out. The room spins around me. The red light of my clock is unreadable. I don't stop to check. The blinds are shut and no light leaks through. My room is dark. Empty. A void, an abyss, floating aimlessly with me inside it.

She doesn't love me - I scramble out of the sheets and they toy with my body before finally letting me go.

She doesn't have to love me - the floor is a messy wasteland of clothes and tissues and bandages and I stumble through it all blindly.

I was stupid for thinking she might have - my hand shakes and crashes into the door and my nails scratch against it as I find the doorknob.

I was stupid for dreaming of it - the knob turns and I force the door open and it crashes into the wall with a loud thud.

She doesn't love me and she never will - my steps are frantic and crazed and the world, nonexistent, twirls around me and I feel sick, nauseous, _disgusting._

I was made to serve - turning the corner, I fumble with the bathroom door and stagger in.

I was made to please - my hand slams against the light switch and the room is lit up with an off-golden glow.

I was made to love her - I tear my clothes off as fast as I can but some stay on and it's taking too long and I can't scramble out of them and it's enough, it's enough, it's good enough.

My love is unconditional - my shirt is still on when I turn on the shower and I make the water as hot as it can be.

She will never love me as much as I love her - I enter the shower and sit on the floor, scalding water beating against my skin.

No one will ever love me as much as I love them - I stay there and stare at the basin far after the water runs cold.

No one will ever love me - that is a fact of life.

* * *

She stops by later. It's Monday, so of course she does.

She knocks at the door and pauses when I don't open it immediately. She knocks again. I force myself to stand and my shirt drips water onto the ground. Another knock. The knell rings again. I find a pair of shorts and slip them on. They're inside out. It doesn't matter.

She knocks again. Funeral toll.

I open the door.

She is pretty. Perfect. She greets me with a smile that fades once she sees me.

I am wretched. Flawed. I don't smile. I don't say anything. I look up at her and my gaze is dead. Water drips down my face. I don't wipe it on anything. I can't. Do I look pathetic, right now? Do I look worthless, right now? Does she worry for me, right now?

I don't know. Probably not.

Wordlessly, I step aside. My shirt sticks to my frame, lanky and thin and spindly. My shorts are wet now, from water this time. I'm cold. The water was cold. Water drips from me onto the wooden floor. I hope she doesn't slip. That would be embarrassing. If I slipped, though, that could be okay. If I hit the ground hard enough, I would die. If I died, she wouldn't have to deal with worthless wastes of oxygen like me. If she didn't have to deal with me, she would be happy.

I want her to be happy.

Distantly, I can recall happiness. It feels like so long ago. I want her to feel that. I want her to feel happy.

Loved.

Loved, but not by me.

Loved, but by my ghost.

Loved, but by my corpse.

By the smeared mess left on the asphalt.

"Summer?" she speaks. Her voice shakes, her eyes wide. "Summer, are you... Okay? You're all wet."

I stare back. The void my apartment floated in now fills my chest, crushing and suffocating, hollowly writhing in my chest.

"Yes," I reply after a pause. "I'm okay."

"You should change out of that, at least." She takes a few steps forward, shutting the door behind her. Her hand touches my shoulder and I remember last night _\- "I love you."_ \- and I swat her hand away and flinch away.

"Don't," I hiss, my voice small and trembling. "Don't touch me."

"I'm... I'm sorry," she says quietly, mantle a swirling mix of beige and lavender.

She shouldn't be sorry. I should be.

It's my fault, after all. If only I weren't so unlovable.

Lazily, I cant my head to the side. "Do you want some coffee?" I ask, if only to be polite. She walks into the living room and things go routinely once more.

* * *

The next day is Tuesday. She doesn't visit on Tuesdays.

Good.

I don't want to be seen by her.

I remember it each time I close my eyes. I remember her touch, so warm and soft and caring, and I feel sick. I feel revolted. I don't deserve that kind of thing.

_Love._

That's what it was. That's what it had to be. Love.

The word makes me sick.

I don't get love. I don't deserve love.

A good servant - a good "_friend"_ \- doesn't act selfish. I'm being selfish. So selfish. I dream of her. I dream of her loving me. Fucking me.

That aching void in my hearts suddenly courses through me. It shoots from my chest and down into my palms until it fades and fizzles away.

If I had a hobby, would I dream of things beyond her? If I had a hobby, would I bother her less? If I had a hobby, would she be happier?

...Well. That's what it always boils down to.

Her.

I wonder if I was once my own person. If I was someone else, with interests and friends and opinions. Someone with a name.

Ah, well - I lick my beak, and it tastes like sleep - I have a name. It doesn't feel like my own, though. I try not to think of it. Truthfully, I don't think I'm that kind of person. The kind of person with a name. The kind of person that's a person.

I'm shaped like a person. I breathe like one. I should be one.

But I'm not.

I'm a shambling shell filled with nothing, a shell that's wasting away and rotting alive. I'm a waste of space. A waste of time. A waste, through-and-through.

So I am not "Summer." So I am not "Agent 3." So I am not anyone.

So I am just me.

* * *

She takes me to the Cabin again. She doesn't touch me. She barely looks at me.

Good, I think. You aren't wasting her time.

Bad, I think. You are nothing without her.

Bad, I think. You are selfish.

I see it again. Eight, it wants me to call it. Eight, with the crooked nose from where it was punched. I wonder if I punched the other side, if it would correct itself. I wonder if it could breathe, or if it'd suffocate. I wonder if it'd bleed. I wonder how much. I wonder if it'd like it. If it was some sick fuck like me. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.

Wondering gets me nowhere, though, so I stop.

"Hello, Three," it greets. Its voice is soft. Gentle. "How are you today?"

I adjust a little where I sit. The couch is hard. It doesn't matter.

"Okay," I mumble in response. Okay is never a lie. Okay is always right in some way. "You?"

"I have been, um... A little more okay." Purple dusts its cheeks as it talks. "I have been practicing Inkling some more."

I nod absently, resting my head against the couch cushions with my knees tucked up towards my chest.

"You're improving," I state. It isn't a compliment. It is fact.

"Thank you," it says in return, and I know it's too stupid to discern what is and isn't praise. "How are the things with Four?"

"Okay," I repeat. Terrible. They're terrible. But it's alright. Somewhere in the world, terrible is okay. It's not a lie. I'm not lying. "How are things with Off the Hook?"

It blinks. "Ah... It is, 'are things' and not 'are the things?'" I nod, annoyance burning through me like acid. "I understand... Thank you." Again, I nod. I wish it'd just answer the question. "They are, um... They are doing good. Marina is teaching me the Inkling. It is a lot harder than I thought."

"You think Octarian is easier?" I've heard bits and pieces of it before. I think the language sounds rough. I don't know if I like the way it sounds.

"Yes, I do think Octarian is easier. It was the first language I learned," it replies. "Um... Do you mind if I teaching you some?"

"If I teach," I correct. Its face flushes dark purple. The hue is close to blue. I wonder what it'd look like if I strangled it. It's a thought I like too much. "Do it if you want. I don't care."

Secretly, some part of me hope it does. Secretly, some part of me is lonely. Secretly, some part of me just wants to talk to someone, something, anything, before the void swirling inside me eats me whole.

"Yes," it says. It makes its choice. I wish I was decisive. "Do you knowing any Octarian?"

I shake my head.

"I will teaching you the best I can," it announces. "There are the greetings. Um, I think it is like the 'hello.'" I nod, but I listen. "Repeating it after me?" When I nod again, it clears its throat. {Alkev.}

{Alkev,} I parrot, and it pauses and thinks and then shrugs, deeming my pronunciation good enough.

It teaches me more phrases, more words, all small and common and easily said.

When she comes to take me back to my apartment, she asks how it went. She says I look happy.

I don't think I do, but I'm smiling. I don't know what the feeling in my chest is, but it is warm. It's different from the warmth I get from her, but it's something. Something that scares me.

A part of me fears it. A part of me fears growing closer.

I think that maybe Eight has become something of an equal in my eyes.

Right now, she is my only equal.

I hope it stays that way.


End file.
